Poetry

Psaltery, Serpentines, a Long Way from Home

Then I realized that the poems are not hyperbole but just a bent description of yesterday’s actual life events. The dreamlike tears of mist surrounding the verses were like clothes that kept falling off. And then then the magic stopped.

To César Vallejo

— What if after all those prayers I succumb to my agony? What if all of a sudden it moves as it was foreseen         as they said it would if after moving once and for all the rock inhibits                       keeps out                     returns to itself refuses to fall down further into the void’s bottom and then…

From this side

To Maythé Rueda, April, 1998 The men that I am in the mirror don’t  talk to each other neither they live in the mirror they look at without looking at they don’t promise neither they converge in the smoke of your lips the men that I look in the mirror are innocuous they clean in…

To Borges – Variation V

I committed the worst of all sins: not being complete. Across the fields my race didn’t last long and will extinguish with my death me being the sole prototype of a different form of existence an unlikely genetic mutation between the gabriels and the lerners I sinned because I did not finished the novel I…

Prayer in three betrayed voices

to my sons and other people that I abandoned Across the quiet field my view embraces like an infrared periscope left in a plain desert under the mud              gray as the night that I swallow while I survive in the ambush there are masks, knives, sad voices that call me from the center of a…